


Hellfire and Ice

by Tibby



Category: Lucifer Box - Mark Gatiss
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 20:57:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tibby/pseuds/Tibby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucifer's plans for Christmas involve being debauched somewhere in the Mediterranean. Joshua Reynolds' plans for Lucifer's Christmas involve tracking down a pair of Satanist Suffragette anarchists.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What's Past is Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [derryderrydown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/derryderrydown/gifts).



It is December in one of England’s ancient counties. The late evening air is as still as it is cold. No one could be surprised if the entire scene froze completely, stopping the gently drifting plumes of snow in midair. However, the snow continues to fall, ever so slowly.

At the top of one of the low hills, a deer raises his muzzle and takes stock of the state of things. A small wood stands behind him. Sitting below, there is a house; in the neoclassical style, perhaps a hundred and fifty years old. It has an orchard to the side facing the hill (where, doubtlessly, there are robins perched on stone walls and the handles of shovels). Its tree-lined avenue begins nearby and retreats around the back. In front, a stretch of water, introduced by the first of the house’s tenants, is guarded by an uncared for boathouse. To complete the scene, an old gardener can be seen ambling towards the house with a bundle of kindling under his arm.

The silence grows in anticipation.

At a second floor window, the glass cracks and flies. Fire rolls out on its tail, and the tremendous noise of the explosion turns to a screeching, painful howl. The fire blazes onwards and… doesn’t quite burn out. But it’s gone in a moment, as if it was never there. It doesn’t stop to notice that it has dropped something. Through the ice that something goes. And now there is a face at the broken window, screaming.

A few moments later, a little girl in her nightclothes is running, barefoot, through the snow, to the broken ice. She clambers in, before the trail of adults running behind her can tell her to stop. She drops beneath the black surface. A man, still in evening dress, follows her. Soon, although it does not seem so to the people at the water’s edge, he has managed to drag two girls out of the water.  
　  
　  
When Ada Memmoir eventually wakes, she fears that she has been thrown into the kitchen fire. She quickly realises, with heart-pounding relief, that she’s only beside it. She turns her head and sees a girl by her, lying still and white.

“Violet?” she says. She thinks she says. She feels sick and extremely cold, despite the heat of the room. Her mind isn’t clear. She tries again, feeling the movement of her mouth this time and hearing the sound. She tries a third time.

“Shh! Shh!” This is the nursemaid who looks after Violet’s brothers. All Ada knows about her is that she is one of the many objects of Violet’s loathing. Still, when she puts a hand to Ada’s forehead, Ada knows immediately that she is only pretending to be kind. “The doctor’s on his way. He’ll take care of her.”

“It wasn’t anything to do with me,” says Ada.

“Of course it wasn’t,” says the nursemaid, both patronising and unconvinced.

Ada closes her eyes. She falls unconscious again, but not before hearing Violet’s mother kneel down with a rustle next to her child and say:

“What _could_ they have been doing?”


	2. Tidings of Comfort and Joy

No one is more ready than I to admit the benefits of having a manservant about the place. I would sing the praises of a good personal gentlemen to the high heavens. You see, I have had a good many personal gentlemen in my time and, tragically, I have had to go without their services a good many times as well. I find them useful for everything from taking care of one’s wardrobe to taking bullets. (If you are in a similar line of work to me, I hasten to recommend that you make sure your own man’s laundry bills are paid for out of his wages. Otherwise unflinching laundresses can prove most uncooperative when shown bloodstained livery.) In general, I think having a manservant is the height of domestic felicity. However, if he is an impudent wretch who takes up far more than his half of the master’s bed, I am willing to recant that.

My man, Charlie Jackpot, and I have an arrangement that I am pleased to think will shock my less bohemian readers. He is very much a… live-in servant, as you will have ascertained. He can be disobedient, lazy, and prone to getting into all kinds of scrapes. He always makes the most appalling judgments when matching buttonholes with ties and suits. Why, then, do I not throw him out on his ear? Well, dear reader, I am most inordinately fond of Mr. Jackpot despite all these flaws. I’m very happy to have picked him up in Naples during my last visit - but that is another story, and one you may already be familiar with.

Charlie rolled into me in his sleep. I moved to put my arm around him but he rolled away again too quickly, dragging the corner of blanket I had with him. It was nine o’clock in the morning. I was very tempted to kick him in the shins, make a grab for the sheets, and run away with them to the chaise-longue in the studio. He, meanwhile, simply lay there, looking like a wayward angel. It’s another infuriating trait of his. After a few moments of looking at him, I gave up on the idea. I stepped out of the bed and began to search for a cigarette instead.

“Light one for me too, will you?” Charlie mumbled.

I found my cigarette case on the dresser. I placed two Armenian cigarettes between my lips and struck a match.

“Ta,” grinned Charlie, taking one and dragging on it hungrily.

I took a long draw from my own as I sat down on my side of the bed. He looked at me with puppyish affection in his eyes and tossed me my corner of blanket back.

“You’ll freeze your knackers off, walking about in the buff like that.”

I generously refrained from comment.

He continued, “It’s the first of December today.”

“Is it?” I said. It may very well have been. It was cold, dark, wet and miserable outside. That was the extent of my knowledge and interest.

“Don’t play daft. You know it is. What’re we doing for Christmas, Lucifer?”

Ah, so that was it. I began to remember Charlie’s strange enthusiasm for the Christmas season from the previous year. That time, I had only been saved from a deathly traditional Christmas dinner and carols around the tree by some kind anarchists who needed to be prevented from blowing up the Foreign Secretary. I feared that I wouldn’t have such luck again. I might just be dragged into Charlie’s Dickensian vision - unless I could distract him.

“I was thinking of going away…”

“What? To the country?”

“Good God, no. It’s even colder and duller in the country than it is in town. I thought somewhere warm. The continent.”

Charlie frowned. “Come on, Lucifer, that’s not right.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not like Christmas if you’re out of England, is it?”

“I assure you, Christianity is not this country’s special and secret religion. They celebrate it in Italy too, you know.”

“Oh, not Italy.”

“I thought you hated winter in England. You’ve been complaining about it for weeks.”

“Yeah,” Charlie conceded, “But not during December.”

I could see that this was destined to be a long, tedious argument. Although, perhaps ‘argument’ is not the right word. If I were to be unkind to myself, I would tell you that Charlie and I only ever have disagreements followed by drawn out periods of mutual sulking.

Charlie was about to continue speaking when we heard the telephone’s trill from the hall. I gestured my head towards the bedroom door. He stopped to scowl at me but dutifully removed himself from the bed and went to answer it.

He returned momentarily.

“Someone from the R.A. says Mr. Reynolds wants you there urgent.”

It is, of course, always an urgent matter with the Royal Academy, so I was in no hurry to present myself to our esteemed Mr. Joshua Reynolds. I was, nonetheless, pleased to escape the dispute with Charlie. I took my time dressing. I had little choice, as I had to veto and replace all of Charlie’s choices for the morning’s attire. I think the uniform ugliness might have been some form of silent protest. Once I was presentable, I left him in the bedroom and went outside to hail a cab.

 

Typically for the season in London, both the roads and the pavements were packed. It seemed to take an age to even get out of sight of Downing Street, but eventually I found myself outside the tradesmen’s entrance of the R.A. Delilah, my domestic help, red-faced and swathed, as usual, in daffodil yellow, was waiting at the top of the steps.

“Morning, sir. Mr. Reynolds was hexpecting you a bit hearlier than this, sir.”

I smiled, “I hope Mr. Reynolds is aware that good things only come to those who wait.”

“With Mr. Reynolds, they tend to quicken their pace a bit, hif you don’t mind me saying,” said Delilah, moving aside to let me descend the spiral steps.

 

I found Joshua Reynolds, as usual, behind a sliding sheet of metal in the gentlemen’s conveniences. His feet dangled, tapping the porcelain stem anxiously, several inches from the ground.

“Good morning, Lucifer.”

“Good morning,” I rejoined, happily, “Something amiss in our Great Empire, I take it?”

“However did you guess, my dear boy? Yes. I have something for you to take care of. Or rather, to keep an eye on. We’re not sure yet as to whether we’ll need your… more active services.”

“Bit of a fact-finding exercise, is it?”

Reynolds nodded, “Precisely so. And the good news is, you won’t have to stray very far from home.”

At this, I visibly wilted. It is fortunate for me that I have a very fetching figure for wilting and I tried, as soon as the feeling struck me, to keep it as elegant as possible. As I struggled with this, Reynolds shot me a brief, amused look and began to go into the details.

“Our Prime Minister is planning to spend the Christmas period in the country, at the house of an old friend and Liberal MP, Sir Tarquin DeLyte. Our problem is this. Unknown to Sir Tarquin, his daughter is a leading figure in an especially militant branch of the W.S.P.U. They’re rather secretive, but we’ve linked Miss DeLyte and her companions to two cases of arson and the letter bombing of the MP for Dudley North. They’ve also been making alliances with a number of anarcho-communist groups. You see, we’ve managed to infiltrate a few of their meetings.”

“And you fear that Miss DeLyte may attempt to set fire to the PM on behalf of womankind.”

“We’re not sure. We cannot ascertain anything more than rumours at this point. But we’d like you to keep an eye on things.”

“Right ho,” I conceded, “Just one problem - how do I get myself invited to this private house party?”

“Ah, never fear,” Reynolds smiled, “We have that all sorted out. You are there at the invitation of one of Miss DeLyte’s friends.”

“I see,” I said, cautiously. The mention of a partner put me on my guard - there were any number of bores and vulgarities in the R.A.’s employ, “Who might that be?”

“You remember my niece, Sybil Lance? You met her at one of Lady Deverill’s little parties.”

I nodded, slowly. The vision of Sybil Lance was trickling slowly back into my mind. I’m sure anyone would call her a frightfully nice girl, but she was rather brash. And clingy. And she had the most distractingly large teeth.

“She certainly remembers you. Of course, she knows nothing about the reason I’m sending you, but she was thrilled to know that she’d have Mr. Lucifer Box as a companion.”

“I don’t doubt it,” I said, with little enthusiasm.

That was it, then. Those were my Christmas plans set out for me. Knowing my own impecunious circumstances as well as I did, I could only resign myself to it. I rose from the lavatory seat and began to mentally prepare myself for Charlie’s crows of victory.


	3. Party Politics

I have to admit that there was something picturesque about the train journey from London, taking in as it did many lengths of snow drenched rural scenery. It was perhaps a little too ‘Cadbury’s biscuit tin’ for my taste, but Charlie seemed to like it. I suppose his years in Italy had made the heart grow fonder. And I had an enviable view of him, sitting opposite me in the compartment. He looked remarkably smart in his bowler and suit. We rarely go visiting together, so I suppose I’m too used to him wandering around our own place in various states of undress.

Charlie spent most of his time with an elbow against the window, cupping his face in his hand, one finger pressed against his plump bottom lip, eyes upturned and gazing at the view beyond. I spent most of my time with my nose in a collection of short stories by one Mr. Firbank.

Eventually, the train juddered to a stop outside an unassuming little station and we got out.

As soon as we alighted, a woman stepped out of the waiting room and walked over to us.

“Mr. Lucifer Box?”

“Yes?”

“I’m Ada Memmoir. I’ve come to take you back to the house.”

She stretched out her hand, gloved, with the hint of a pale, willowy wrist peeping from her coat sleeve. I took it and pressed my lips lightly to the leather. She seemed unappreciative of this, and snatched her hand away.

“Your valet can put the bags in the motor,” she said, gesturing to a motor car waiting on the other side of the platform. Seated at the wheel was a tall, foreign gentlemen. He was clothed in what I soon recognised as traditional Turkish dress, “Ediz will help him.”

I gave a nod of recognition in Ediz’ direction and he gave me a slight dip of the head in return.

“Is Mr. Ediz a fellow guest?”

“He’s my manservant,” said Miss Memmoir, “My father was in the East; he brought Ediz back for me.”

“How… Imperial of him.”

Miss Memmoir paused for a moment and gave me a lingering look, as if sizing me up for assessment.

“I suppose,” she said momentarily, “Of course, I don’t agree with the principle. I’m for the emancipation of the colonies. But I’ve grown up with Ediz. We’re not _exactly_ master and servant, which is at least more than can be said for most people who keep their fellow countrymen in servitude,” she ushered me over to the motor, “Well, get in, Mr. Box. The estate is about two miles away.”

　  
Reynolds’ niece, Sybil Lance was waiting for me on the drive when we pulled up at the house. Charlie had to remove himself immediately to the servants’ quarters, so the idea of protecting me from Sybil’s attentions was out of the question. Still, from the grin on his face, I feel he abandoned me with cruel relish.

“Miss Lance, you shouldn’t have waited for me. I fear you’ll catch your death out here,” I said, chivalrously, for I am always chivalrous. There was no snow on the ground as yet, but it was cold enough to expect some shortly.

Sybil smiled, “Oh, it’s all right. I was just taking a walk. I say, it is good to see you, Lucifer. Have you missed me?”

Considering that we had only met on one previous occasion, I thought this question a bit forward. But I am positively renowned for being forward on first meetings, let alone seconds, so I let it pass and decided to get into a similar spirit.

“It’s been positively hellish without you. Which, I must say, is a state that has always suited me, but it’s also a pleasure to be reunited.”

Sybil giggled. Miss Memmoir stepped over to us impatiently.

“Sybil, darling, it’s freezing out here. Let’s get inside now.”

Sybil looked at me and smiled with all her huge teeth. She tucked her arm through mine. I had no choice but to smile back winningly and lead her up the steps to the grand entrance. Miss Memmoir followed us. Ediz hung silently behind her, carrying my bags.

Inside the place was a neoclassical fever dream, no doubt the pride and joy of some eighteenth century aristo. He had, presumably, travelled extensively in Greece and Italy, liked what he saw and brought most of it home with him. Of course, a few of the artefacts that filled up space between the tall marble columns were of dubious authenticity. The whole thing gave off less than a vibe of Ancient Rome. You could practically picture the middle-aged Brit trying so desperately to be civilised and, ultimately, trying a little too hard. Which is so often a problem with old English houses, or anything that survives into posterity. I try to remember this when considering the two great gifts I will leave to future generations - my daubs and my scandalous reputation.

“Ediz, would you take Mr. Box’s things to his room?” Miss Memmoir said, brusquely.

She was a strange specimen, Ada Memmoir. There was no nonsense about her and she seemed to have taken a particular dislike to me. She was, though, undoubtedly beautiful. Her heart-shaped face possessed the softest, loveliest features that were in complete contrast with what I’d seen of her manner.

However, as I was soon to find out, Ada Memmoir was a woman of many sides.

Ediz had silently retreated with the bags.

“He’s a quiet sort, isn’t he?”

“Ediz doesn’t speak English.”

“I haven’t heard him say a word all the time I’ve been here, and I’ve been here a week,” Sybil contributed.

“That can’t be right,” I pointed out, ignoring Sybil for the time being, “You’ve been speaking to him in English, and he’s understood you perfectly.”

“I said he doesn’t speak it, I didn’t say he can’t understand it.”

This didn’t seem like a satisfactory answer, but nor did it seem important. Besides, our host’s daughter was walking down the stairs towards us. Sybil took my arm once again, and dragged me over to meet her.

“Oh, Lucifer, may I introduce you to Miss DeLyte?”

Miss DeLyte smiled graciously and offered her hand, “A friend of our dear Sybil’s? It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“This is Mr. Box, Violet,” Sybil said, happily, “You’ll like him. He’s the wickedest man you’ll ever meet.”

“I’m sure I’ll like him immensely,” said Violet, with a charming display of indifference behind the words.

“Violet, Ada and I were at school together,” Sybil continued, “You know I’ve more of a scientific mind than an artistic one already, and so has Ada, but you’ll find something to talk about with Violet. She makes a special study of art history. Lucifer’s an artist, Violet; have you seen his paintings?”

“Lucifer Box?” Violet DeLyte mused, “Ah, yes, I remember the name. Yes. I’m afraid I have.”

I bristled slightly. She smiled at me, sweetly.

“Do you have a head for politics, Mr. Box?”

“Not to speak of, no.”

“What a shame. The house is full of politicians. I’ve no doubt you’ll find it terribly dull.”

Miss DeLyte had grown tired of pretending not to be bored by this point. She turned away from me and took Ada by the hand, “You said you’d read to me, dearest.”

“Of course,” Ada smiled (the first to cross her lips since we’d met), “I just have to show Mr. Box to his room.


	4. The Mechanical Turk

After being shown to my room, I changed into something fitting and joined the rest of the party in the drawing room. However, sometime before dinner I complained of a headache and retreated back upstairs. I’d seen nothing of Charlie since we’d arrived, and nothing of Violet DeLyte since meeting her in the hall. I planned to search her rooms, but I felt they were likely to be occupied. As I headed towards my own, I listened for any sign of her. The west wing, where I had been placed, was all but deserted. There was only me and a housemaid cleaning out grates. I headed to the corridor opposite. I’d just reached the first room, when I heard a door further along open. There was no sound of occupancy so I ducked inside, just in time to hear the door close again. A few moments later I watched as Violet DeLyte and Ada Memmoir walked past.

Once I was sure they were out of sight, I made my way to the room that they had left. The door was locked, but it didn’t take much effort to the force the lock.

Once I was inside, I had to quickly decide on the most sensible places to search. It is unfortunately very rare to open a locked door and find pages of criminal master plans pinned to the walls. There was, however, a writing desk under the window. That seemed like an obvious place to start. I ran my fine fingers over the neatly organised pile of papers in the letter rack. A quick look through produced nothing but personal correspondence and a few perfectly ordinary letters from liberal but respectable organisations. I tried the drawers underneath. They were locked. I decided to come back to them when I caught sight of a large battered trunk at the foot of the bed.

It was clear that with this trunk I had hit the mark.

It was mostly empty, save for a pile of very old books. The printed names on the front were in heavy gothic typescript, so that the titles were almost impossible to read. Indeed, a few of them turned out to be printed entirely in Latin. However, even in these, there were illustrations that spoke more eloquently than words. I was, I admit, unsure of what to think at first. Yet, in this line of work, it’s surprising how quickly you cease to look for innocence behind pictures of hairy, goat-horned, snake-tongued ruffians. It looked like Miss DeLyte’s devilry was more literal than I’d anticipated. Quite how a little black magic and Satan-worship tied in with her political schemes was uncertain. Presumably she didn’t think she could conjure up Beelzebub and persuade him to join the cause of women’s suffrage.

Still, it was nice to think that certain Conservative ministers and certain young liberals had something to unite them. Perhaps one day I would become a philanthropist and convince them to set aside their differences.

I stopped, with one of the books in my hand, and listened. I could hear footsteps. It was unlikely to be Miss DeLyte again so soon, but I erred on the side of caution and slipped underneath the bed.  
The footsteps stopped. I heard the door rasp against the carpet. Then I saw the pointed leather slippers of our friend, Ediz. I stayed as quiet as possible.

Without a word, Ediz bent down, took me by the collar and dragged me out from under the bed.

I have, I admit, been in similar scrapes before and I kept my dignity as I had done on those occasions. I planned not to bother Ediz with excuses but rather make as quick an exit as possible. This was only hindered by the fact that he still had me by the collar. To my surprise and dismay, he moved his hand closer to my throat and started to push. It had suddenly become a serious situation.

I managed to lift my foot and strike him soundly in the stomach. I freed myself, but he had taken the hit astonishingly well. I backed away, then struck him with a sound right hook. It left him unaffected. My fist, however, was in screaming agony. For once I was utterly bewildered.

I kicked him again, with as little effect as before. All I could do was retreat further and further towards the wall. Anything I could use for a weapon required getting past him. I am terribly light on my feet so I made a good show of dodging his blows. Still, just one strike sent me flying into the desk. Before I could get to my feet, his hands were around my neck once again. It was then that I noticed a cut on his face. Or, rather, not a cut but a tear. A tear that revealed, beneath, a glint of brassy metal. I would have been extremely intrigued if I hadn’t been suffocating at the time.

I was close to passing out and had given up all hopes of escape when someone ran into the room, picked up a chair and brought it down on the Turk’s head. As Ediz recoiled, I managed to get free. My rescuer, Charlie, stood behind him with half a splintered chair in his hand. We exchanged the briefest of looks. Then Charlie leapt onto Ediz’s back and I tackled him from the side.

“Blimey!” Charlie yelled, arms holding fast around Ediz’s neck, “What _is_ he?”

I managed to find enough time and breath to say, “I think. A machine. Some kind of. Machine.”

An idea suddenly struck me. I let go, leaving Charlie to hang, and ran to the window. With a few leaps I managed to break the curtain rail from the plaster. I swung with all my force and hit Ediz behind the knees. He fell backwards, very nearly crushing Charlie.

Charlie scrambled to his feet and grabbed hold of my arm.

“Quick! Help me turn him over.”

I obeyed without question, although I had no clue what Charlie might be thinking. Ediz had lost none of his strength nor consciousness, but once we had him on his front, I managed to push the desk over and onto his legs. Charlie sat on his head and tried to tear the clothes away from his back.

He paused and looked up at me, grinning, “Don’t this feel familiar?”

“I hardly think this is the time, Charlie boy. And, if you don’t mind me asking, what the hell are you doing?”

“Well, if this fella’s a machine, it stands to reason that there must be some way of turning him off. Aha!”

Charlie had been precisely right. There, in the gap between his shoulder blades was a small, brass switch. I flicked it and steeled myself. Ediz sunk lifelessly beneath us.

“There, what did I say?” crowed Charlie.

“Yes, yes, you were right,” I conceded, “But don’t be smug about it.”

Charlie’s grin widened, “I’ll see what I can do.”

“You’re going to be unbearable, aren’t you?”

Charlie laughed and leant over to kiss me. I allowed myself to forget for a few seconds that we were in a lady’s boudoir, sitting atop a mechanical Turk. Unfortunately, I should have remained on my guard. Before our lips parted, we were joined by Miss DeLyte herself.

Miss DeLyte’s incredulous gaze flicked rapidly from the unhappy state of her room to the two men perched on her friend’s servant. At this juncture, it seemed unwise to feign innocence.

“I think some reintroductions are in order,” I smiled, as suavely as possible in the circumstances, “I am Lucifer Box, of his Majesty’s secret service. I feel I must ask you a few questions.”

“I know who you are, Mr. Box,” she snapped, “You are aware that we had all your employers’ spies interrogated? I only thought you might be a little more competent than this.”

I ignored this insult and continued to the most pertinent question, “What plans do you have for the Prime Minister?”

“I hardly think I’m going to answer that just because you ask me.”

I rose and reached inside my jacket for the pearl inlaid handle of my revolver. I aimed the gun steadily at her.

Miss DeLyte gave a sniffy little laugh. “You needn’t worry, in any case. I’m not going to lay a finger on Mr. Asquith.”

“What do you mean?”

I heard, then, a door open behind me. I had vaguely noticed it earlier; it probably led to a closet or an adjoining bathroom. I turned on my heel to face Miss Memmoir. Before I had all my senses about me, she had raised one of the shattered chair legs.

Beyond that, I don’t remember a thing.


	5. Young Devils

When I, at last, awoke, I was in the same room, thoroughly gagged and tied (with hastily ripped sheets) to Miss DeLyte’s bed. Miss DeLyte and Miss Memmoir had left, and they seemed to have taken Charlie with them.

I looked to my wrists, and tried to move them. The two women had taken care to make my fastenings tight. The same went for my ankles. I was trying to dislodge the gag when I heard someone coming. It seemed to me that there was no harm in taking a chance. I made as much noise as the gag would allow.

“I say, is everything all right in there?” someone called through the keyhole.

I recognised the voice. It was Sybil. As pained as I was to let her see me in this state, I could only thank whatever kind spirit was looking down on wicked Lucifer.

Sybil tried to open the door which was, of course, locked.

“Just a tick, I’ll go and ask the housekeeper for a key.”

I yelled, but she went away regardless. A few minutes later she was back and I heard the key scrape in the lock.

“Good Heavens! Lucifer!”

Whatever she had been expecting, it is understandable that it hadn’t been Lucifer Box tied to her friend’s bed.

“Ah. Am I disturbing something? Shall I… um, just pop off now?”

I shook my head fervently. “The gag,” I attempted to convey, “Take off the blasted gag.”

She seemed, by understanding or guesswork, to get the message and obliged me. Although I must say that she was rather rough about it.

“Did this seem like a good idea, Lucifer? Really? The minute you get into a pretty woman’s house…”

“I didn’t plan this,” I snapped, “Those two tied me up and left me here.”

Sybil sat down on the bed next to me and looked at my bound wrists.

“I hate to rush you, but if you could just untie me? It’s very important that I catch up with Miss DeLyte,” I urged.

“I don’t think I will if you’re going to be so brutish.”

I sighed, collected myself and said, gently, “Miss Lance, I need to find Miss DeLyte. She’s involved in some very radical political movements, and the Prime Minister is in this house.”

Sybil only frowned, “Don’t be stupid; Violet’s a liberal, she’s not some kind of wanton murderer. Or are you of the opinion that those two things are the same?”

“Please. I don’t have time to discuss this.”

Sybil gave me an odd look. She smiled. It was at this point that I began to feel worried. She picked herself up, lifting her skirts slightly above her (admittedly pretty) ankles, and knelt over me.

“Say ‘please’ again.”

I scowled at her.

“Fine, fine,” she pouted, and leant over me to undo the first knot.  
　

Within minutes I was out of the room and heading at a fair lick down the corridor. Miss DeLyte had, of course, deprived me of my revolver, but it only took a quick trip to my room to replace it. My spare was unfortunately less beautiful. Still, it would do the job. At the stairs I paused to consider where the group could have fled to. They would have avoided contact with anyone if they had a hostage with them, especially one such as Charlie. It was likely that they had left the house. I ran to the window. Outside, it had grown completely dark and fresh snow was falling. They would probably be too sensible of the risks to set out in such weather. I began to wonder why they had taken Charlie at all, but I needed to focus on finding the damned boy. There were two out of the way places in any large household that might suit the stowing away of a prisoner: the attics and the cellar.

I took a chance on the attics.  
　  
As I bounded up the stairs, and drew closer to the top of the building (feeling my energy draining, ever so slightly), I began to hear voices. Someone was shouting. I thought, at first, it might be Charlie, but I soon found that the voice was steady, unemotional and undeniably female. It sounded like a chant.

At last, I reached a door at the top of the stairs. The chanting was clearly coming from the room beyond. I took hold of my revolver and slowly turned the door handle.

The room, I quickly ascertained, was an old nursery. Amidst the heavy, lacquered oak furniture stood Miss DeLyte and Miss Memmoir. Miss DeLyte clutched one of her occult books to her chest, staring at me with venom. Miss Memmoir appeared more distressed by my entrance but, then, she was the one holding a dagger. In the middle of the floor, lying across a hastily chalked pentagram, was Charlie Jackpot.

I raised my gun and took aim at Miss DeLyte.

“Put the gun down, you idiot,” Miss Memmoir hissed.

“I’d prefer not to, if you don’t mind. I’d also like you to explain to me exactly what’s going on.”

Miss Memmoir said nothing but she raised her eyes to the ceiling. I hastily followed their lead.

I can’t properly convey what I saw there. I know that the only part of the ceiling visible appeared to be spun into nothingness. There was an absence. I know no better way of describing it. Not darkness, not emptiness, but nothing. And in the centre of that, teeth.

I turned quickly to Miss DeLyte. She smiled at me. Then she turned, silently, to Miss Memmoir.

Miss Memmoir nodded and stepped towards the pentagram. I turned my gun on her. I had very little idea what was going on, but no one was about to sacrifice my valet. She stopped and looked anxiously towards Miss DeLyte. Miss DeLyte only nodded, impatiently.

Miss Memmoir knelt before Charlie and raised the dagger, still with my revolver tracing her movements.

“I will shoot you,” I assured her.

“Don’t be an idiot, Box,” she said, looking up at me with a scowl, “We only need the tiniest amount of blood. He won’t be seriously harmed. I promise.”

I looked from her to Miss DeLyte.

“Kill him,” said Miss DeLyte, keeping her eyes on me, “Strike him through the heart.”

Miss Memmoir looked genuinely taken aback, “What? No! That’s completely unnecessary. Violet, we said…”

“The heart,” Miss DeLyte repeated, louder this time, “Kill him.”

“I’m not killing him, Violet!”

“The heart! The heart!”

I took my chance and dashed over to Miss DeLyte. From all I had heard of the conversation, spilling blood seemed unwise. Instead, I tackled her to the ground and knocked her out with the butt of my gun. Miss Memmoir came after me, of course. I managed to turn around just in time to be knocked off my feet. I lithely recovered and struck Miss Memmoir against the cheek. She collapsed backwards in a rustle of satin.

Miss Memmoir did not get to her feet. She sat amongst her petticoats and stared above me. Looking up, I could see the ceiling gradually swirling back into existence. The hint of teeth grew pale and disappeared.

“She didn’t really want to kill anyone.”

I returned my gaze to Miss Memmoir.

“Summoning devils - or whatever it was you were doing - that was just a bit of fun, was it?”

“No,” she said, “You know we wanted the Prime Minister’s attention, don’t you? That’s all. It’s only… With Violet…” She stopped short. She didn’t continue.

I wasn’t interested in what Miss Memmoir had to say in any case. I would call the Domestics, shortly, and she could explain herself then. Miss Memmoir could worry about Miss DeLyte. For now, I had to worry about Charlie Jackpot. We all have our priorities.

I knelt beside the lad and shook him gently. It took a little while, but eventually he blinked his dark eyes and came back to his senses. His first question was, naturally, “What the ‘ell’s been happening?”

“Your two young lady friends were about to use your blood for devil bait and I had to rescue you.”

Charlie grimaced. “Ah,” he said.

“I thought only virgins were supposed to get sacrificed,” I remarked, rather testily.

Charlie, despite having been kidnapped, knocked out and almost killed, managed to grin (as he always will) and say, “Well, you know, I’m pure of heart, aren’t I?”

I sighed, put my arms around him and held him close.


	6. The Good Ended Happily

We left on the train the next day. Charlie and I shared a compartment of our own. Miss DeLyte and Miss Memmoir had to share with four robust, middle-aged ladies, all of whom had remarkably similar dress sense to our Delilah. Possibly there is a family connection between all Domestics, or perhaps they share a unique mindset for some different reason.

By the time we were passing through Berkshire, Charlie and I had been silently contemplating the scenery for some while. He turned to me with a look on his face that I didn’t quite like.

“It’s still four days ‘til Christmas.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Charlie, light of my life, my very own human Advent Candle, would you please stop talking about this?”

And yet he continued, regardless, “I was thinking, Italy ain’t so bad this time of year. I wouldn’t really mind going. I mean, I was the one who nearly got sacrificed but…”

I leant over and pressed a finger to his lips.

“Silence, please. Let’s just go home.”

Charlie smiled, “It’ll be perfect. Just me and you. Nice food, warm fire.”

I may have disagreed with Charlie’s enthusiastic opinion of figgy pudding, roast chestnuts, dry goose and our terrible smoking chimney, but the thought of the remainder made me very happy indeed.

“Just me and you,” I echoed, blissfully.

“Merry Christmas, Lucifer.”

“Merry Christmas, Charlie.”


End file.
